Fashionably Amused

I am no exception to the Rule of Omission, which states that a straight guy, when surrounded by ten or more beautiful women, will subconsciously omit everything else from his field of vision. A similar situation arose last night. A long lost sister of mine coerced forced invited me to attend the shooting of the grand finale of a high-end reality fashion show, which was promised to be oozing with glamor. I took up the invitation reluctantly and only because of my brotherly protective instincts, which she managed to evoke quite deftly. How can a chivalrous guy like me let his kid sister wander the outskirt streets of aΒ  city like Mumbai alone at midnight and beyond?

So, I went as bodyguard and guest, and sat through two hours of boring social etiquette, while sexy women in breathtaking dresses paraded in front of me. As part of the audience, sitting in my usual torn jeans and ill-fitting shirt, I was the most under-dressed of the lot. And that is saying something. Everyone around me was dressed in lovely evening attire, dresses flowing freely on some and body-hugging some. Curves all around. I was in straight guy heaven.

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The event itself was mediocre. The concept was not too unique and the contestants in the beauty pageant behaved exactly as they were expected to – pretty but dumb. There was the obligatory ‘world-peace’ speech from one of the girls and the cliched ‘stop-terrorism’ plea from another. There were four judges for the event (it could have been five, I’m not sure) – an ex-beauty queen, two or three Bollywood actors and a fashion designer. Apparently these people were celebrities and supposed to be quite the household name. I had never heard of them.

A 23-year old friend of mine who had accompanied us on this adventure became quite depressed halfway through the evening when my sister told her that she looked 28. The rest of the evening passed by in a blur for me, caught in between the incessant ‘Do I look 28?’ chants on one side and stunning women on the other. The buffet spread was passable at best, and a few social niceties later, we said skadoosh and hit the road. The place where this event was being held was called Madh Island (pronounced ‘Mud’, like in mud and dirt), which was a good hour away from the city proper, and in a secluded, forestedΒ  beachfront. Quite a charming place in daylight and definitely not for the weak-hearted and paranoid in moonlight. We were lucky enough to find a cab at the gates, without having to do too much walking around, and reached our respective houses close to 1:00 in the morning.

It was quite a night. Now I know where all the hot women hang out.

PS: Why is looking the right age so important for women in their twenties when they don’t act their age?

PPS: Using ‘freshly pressed’ as a tag on your posts won’t get you featured on the WordPress homepage. I discovered this the hard way, in my previous post.

From Bangalore With Love

Stranger Than Strange
My Life: Stranger Than Strange

Strange things seem to happen to me most of the time. I don’t know if anyone else experiences weirdness on a daily basis as I do. Today, a DHL courier guy sniffed my butt, I broke my thumb, and I managed to get myself locked in an ATM counter. All within a span of two hours.

I wanted to send a package to Trivandrum, in Kerala. It was a set of pretty Fabindia kurtas for a friend, on the occasion of Onam. She had specifically asked me not to send anything, and that was why I had to send her some nice clothes. So, after some confusing shopping, I settled on a pair of kurtas. I vowed never to shop for women again.

In the evening, I left office a bit early to courier the package at the DHL office in Malleshwaram, which is just a few miles from home. A harrowing one-hour ride on my rickety bike later, I reached the place.

“Hi,” I said to the courier guy sitting behind the desk. “I’ve got a package to be sent to Kerala.”

“Sir, all connections to Kerala are closed for Onam. It’ll reach only on Monday,” he said.

I sighed and said, “Ok, fine. Give me the earliest connection,” and tried to un-sling my backpack, but it wouldn’t budge. There was an irritating hook in the bag, which had gotten stuck to my belt buckle and my bag was locked in place. When I tried to move it, my pants rode up, giving me a wedgie. It was quite embarrassing, and the courier guy was looking at me with some amusement.

“Excuse me,” I told him. “Can you please check this hook? I think it’s stuck to my pants.” I was utterly, completely, thoroughly embarrassed and I hoped to hell he wouldn’t recognize me on a later day.

He came around and stood behind me and crouched down and held his face as close to my butt as he could. After a while, he said, “Yes sir, the hook is stuck to the belt buckle.” He took a pair of scissors and bent down again. We struck a queer pose – me, standing there and him, bending down, examining my ass with a pair of scissors in hand. I was desperately praying that no one walk through the door at that time and find the both of us in this compromising position. My prayers were answered and no one walked in, and soon, he had freed the hook from my pants and I could un-sling my bag. We avoided looking into each others’ eyes.

“Can I pay with my credit card?” I asked as I handed over the package to him.

“No sir, we don’t,” he said. Of course they won’t. Things can never be too easy, right? So, I told him, “Ok, then start billing, I’ll go to the ATM next door.”

Three people stood in a line outside the ATM, and I stood there, patiently awaiting my turn. Ten excruciating minutes later, the guy in front of me finished his transactions and I withdrew my money. As I tried to open the door, I realized that it was locked. The ATM counter had a button that we needed to push in order to open it from inside, and that button had been ripped out, with only a few dangerous wires hanging from the hole. I didn’t know what to do. There was no phone inside the counter. I had my cell phone, but I didn’t want to call the cops and be embarrassed a second time.

I waited there for exactly 9 minutes until someone else came up to the counter. I told him that I was locked in and that he could open the door by inserting his card through the slot on the other side. He did so and I was free. I thanked him and together, we hauled a piece of tile and blocked the door so that it wouldn’t shut completely, trapping some other poor fellow.

I ran up to the DHL office and paid up the money and took my receipt and ran out. Finally, I said to myself. I can go home in peace.

As I was removing my bike from the parking lot, I dropped my helmet, which I was holding in my hand. Instinctively, I bent down to pick it up before it rolled away onto the main road, and lost control of the bike and fell over to my side, with my left thumb being pinned between the concrete road and the bike’s handle. One tiny bone somewhere inside that thumb snapped and driving back in that pain was hell. I was screaming all the way home and people thought I was drunk.

From Bangalore, all the way to Trivandrum, with love. I hope they deliver the package to the right address! πŸ˜€

Me, Brand Factory!

Whew! Finally!

Shefaly tagged me on May 27, 2008 with a meme that proved to be as elusive as my sanity! I finally found the time to finish the tag, that had been sitting patiently in my drafts folder all this while! πŸ˜€

The meme is about branding – to capture the role played by different brands in our lives, on a day-to-day basis. For me, a typical day would involve somewhere close to a hundred different brands in various situations, starting with my user-friendly underwear to the ever-present pair of glasses. I’ve made a very amateurish collage of all the brands I use in my day-to-day affair and very optimistically, I’ve added my own grinning picture in it, hoping that one day in the far future, I’d be a brand! πŸ˜€

Click For The Bigger Picture! πŸ™‚

WordPress plays a major role in my day, followed closely by VIP underwears, Dettol Soaps and Hanes vests. I use Colgate toothpaste in the morning and listen to 91.9 Radio Indigo. I smoke ITC cigarettes and I own a Dell computer. I have a Titan watch and I wear Arrow shirts. I have a Moto phone with a BSNL connection. I sometimes steal my dad’s Maruti car and at other times, I drive my own Bajaj bike. I use Bausch & Lomb glasses and wear Woodlands shoes. I handle Intuit and SQL Star as my clients and I drink Kingfisher beer. Oh, I almost forgot – my commode is a Parryware product and I write with a Reynolds pen! πŸ˜€

Since I’m very interested to see the responses of a few people, I tag Bina, Fruity, Ruhi, Reema, Scorpria, Deepsm25 and RJ

Cheers! πŸ™‚